"Have you a Bradshaw on board?" asked the young man.
"Steady!" This to the man at the wheel; then to Kirkwood: "Wot's that, me lud?"
Kirkwood repeated his question. Stryker eyed him suspiciously for a thought.
"Wot d'you want it for?"
"I want to see when I can get a boat back to England."
"Hmm.... Yes, you'll find a Bradshaw in the port-locker, near the for'ard bulk'ead. Run along now and pl'y—and mind you don't go tearin' out the pyges to myke pyper boatses to go sylin' in."
Kirkwood went below. Like its adjacent rooms, the cabin was untenanted; the watch was the mate's, and Stryker a martinet. Kirkwood found the designated locker and, opening it, saw first to his hand the familiar bulky red volume with its red garter. Taking it out he carried it to a chair near the companionway, for a better reading light: the skylight being still battened down.
The strap removed, the book opened easily, as if by force of habit, at the precise table he had wished to consult; some previous client had left a marker between the pages,—and not an ordinary book-mark, by any manner of means. Kirkwood gave utterance to a little gasp of amazement, and instinctively glanced up at the companionway, to see if he were observed.
He was not, but for safety's sake he moved farther back into the cabin and out of the range of vision of any one on deck; a precaution which was almost immediately justified by the clumping of heavy feet upon the steps as Stryker descended in pursuit of the ever-essential drink.
"'Find it?" he demanded, staring blindly—with eyes not yet focused to the change from light to gloom—at the young man, who was sitting with the guide open on his knees, a tightly clenched fist resting on the transom at either side of him.